


on the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.

by GStK



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mute Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other, Patch 5.1: Vows of Virtue; Deeds of Cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 19:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21463147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: and i, who have listened for a stepall afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,already in memory.
Relationships: Fray Myste/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	on the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Dark Knight quests and Patch 5.11, Ishgard Reconstruction.

I see you. Struggling, always. When you are motivated by good, old-fashioned greed -- fine. But we remember the times that weren’t so. 

Who shook you first? The heroic sacrifices have done a number on us. The chivalric soul who killed worlds to try to bring back his own… it moves you. I know, not in the back but in the front of your mind.

You look out and see an ongoing effort to restore the lost future. I look down and see your scarred, calloused hands, bruised from the task of putting your best foot forward. You think it’s going to make a difference. We both know it won’t.

Refuse the drink that’s offered to you. Stay your fingers on the needle and the loom. Consider what it would be like if we stopped, left. The efforts would continue, with or without you around. You were so special they plucked you right out of the air to save them, and when they saved you -- can you truly say they succeeded? You’re seven times the person you were. We didn’t ask for that.

You’re clinging to the old, half-remembered sounds of his voice, her wailing, their plea to be remembered. They call it inner strength. I call it a crutch.

The Firmament will not house the children dying on the streets. They won’t be praying at the foot of the foundation for the safety of the mongrels. They can’t even be bothered to ask what happened to your tongue. But your fingers keep moving. You saw, you sew, you work the metals in your fire. We taste the blood in your mouth from the time you were robbed, long before you ever belonged to the Light or the Darkness. Whatever it is they like to call you these days.

Dusk is falling, adventurer. Snow is gathering on your shoulders, you weary soul. The flower you brought to me -- to us -- is dead and buried under a pile of frost. What are you going to do about it?

Syllables are falling from your mouth without sound. There are words other will speak for you, but only I can give voice to the terrors and the truths in our heart. What are you doing without me? Serving hapless masters again?

…

You dust the snow off your back and collect it in a white mess, a fresh slab for the writing on the ground. Of course I can read; I sent you that letter, didn’t I?

…

Your words and mine are the same. You go back to plucking the harpstrings of your needlework. I look up and consider Ishgard’s rising towers of apocrypha.

You can wipe it away, _ I love you too,_ or you can let the falling snow cover it up. The flower fades. The warmth dies. The crystals shatter.

But I am always with you. I put my hand on your shoulder and you turn your eyes to the quiet remote dawn.

Take care not to forget yourself in all the madness.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary adapted from works by Donald Justice.


End file.
